Jules Breton has caught and put on canvas, more than once, the spirit of peasant piety4 which pervaded5 that vespers; the air of restful, provincial6, old-world religious fixity, breathing through the richly colored and wonderfully picturesque7 scene in that ancient church.
Around the tallow-encrusted base of the figure of San Francesco, the patron saint of the village, flared8 the great yellow candles. A few glimmered9 on the altar. 119The figure stood on a pedestal a little to one side of the centre of the church. To the left, kneeling on the worn stones of the floor, or sitting on tiny rush-bottomed chairs, were the closely grouped women, some few in the coveted10 black-lace prayer-shawls, but the mass in the solid-colored commoner ones, drawn11 over the head and spreading out into a cone12 around the kneeling or sitting figure. These shawls, dark red, green, or yellow, treasured among the poor, made that night in the candle-light a softened13 color-scheme that is indescribable. To the right were the men and boys, clad for the most part in the baggy14 homespun worn in the fields, though here and there some villager boasted a suit from the tailor’s hands.
As we entered, an old man with furrowed15 face, horn spectacles and raucous16 voice, and a slender, Raphael-faced boy, both in vestments, were chanting from well-thumbed books held into the light of the candles about the saint’s figure. Overhead in the choir17 the old organ toiled18 uncertainly through the music of the service, and ever and anon the boy took up and rang the tinkling19 silver bell.
His clear, superb soprano voice was in fine contrast with that of the elder singer, but the whole scene, the portion of the service at the altar, the muffled20 murmur21 of the people repeating the forms, the rustle22 and stir as they knelt or rose, the shifting of the shadows on the wall, was all so strange, almost barbaric, yet so harmonious23 and beautiful that its very detail was evasive.
When the service was ended, the people, without haste or without form, gathered around the priest while he christened a tiny wailing24 infant, held up by the midwife, with the proud father at her side. 120They named it Giuseppe. Yet another to join the millions of Giuseppes, Giacomos and Giovannis!
As we left the church, the father of the child followed us and bade us come to his house, where the christening was being celebrated26. Through the dark, narrow streets we wended our way to the other end of the town, climbed the stone stairs to an overcrowded upper room, and spent a politely sufficient length of time eating anise cakes and drinking sweet wine.
With the tact27 of womankind, my wife had brought some trinkets of American origin as a gift for the child, whereat the assemblage beamed its appreciation28, and just before we left the father said to me aside, as if it was a secret he was keeping from his wife: “If I can save twenty more lire, the next one will be born in Pittsburg, praise the Holy Mother.”
At home all the favored neighbors and relatives had gathered for a dance. The large room on the ground floor of the Casa Squadrito was ringed around with a double row of guests. Whole families sat together, on the stairway were seated the youngsters already drowsy29; crowding around the wide door opening into the street were the unbidden, but none the less interested and curious. The head of the Mannino family, weary with the labors30 of his sixty years and the fatigue32 of a stiff, home-laundered collar, was nodding before the music struck up, occasionally raising his head to blink at the light solemnly and to make sure none of the young men were unduly33 near his daughter, the heiress of his hard-got wealth.
Every one who had any heavy gold rings, bracelets34 or brooches, or any of the pretentious35 gold-mounted strands36 of old coral, which are handed down so carefully 121from mother to daughter, had them on, for a display of gold ornaments37 is a sure sign of rural social distinction. Feet that were rarely shod were now encased in scarpi made by Carmelo Merlino and his fellow craftsmen38 in the village, and dress among women in the throng39 varied40 from a department store ready-made cloth gown sent home from America to a ragged41 working frock, the wearer of which kept her shoeless and stockingless feet shyly tucked out of sight.
All were awaiting our arrival, for Antonio, who was with us, was host as well as chief musician. A home-made acetylene lamp, of the blacksmith brother’s contriving42, was lighted and set high up on a bracket, throwing every object in the room, even to the boys perched in the transom, into sharp relief. The mandolins and guitars hanging on the wall were taken down, and with a skilful43, brilliant prelude—for he is an excellent mandolin-player—Antonio swept into one of the stirring, if monotonous44 time-honored tarantelle airs.
Even though eyes were dancing in young faces all around the room, all were too shy to take the floor till, Giovanina and Maria Squadrito urging into acquiescence45 two of the Di Bianca girls, the four formed a square and began a swaying, pirouetting movement, preceding the whirling and crossing over with the accompanying snapping of the fingers in imitation of the castanet, and the smiting46 of the tambourines47. Round and round they whirled, across and back, first one set of partners, then the other, the assemblage applauding a little shyly as yet.
The tarantelle is called after the black spiders about Taranto, whose dangerous bites killed so many people early in the fifteenth century that many odd cures 122were proclaimed, and one that was officially advocated was music and dancing. I do not know whether the tarantelle dance which was evolved did the spider-victims any good, but a fanatical wave of dancing swept over the peninsula and the surrounding island, and the tarantelle became a fixture48 among the folk-customs of the southern provinces.
When the young girls were weary, an effort was made to get the young men out and into action, but all of them seemed to be in the throes of a monstrous49 diffidence. Little Giovanni Squadrito, Jr., and his small brother Tono were not thus afflicted50, and dragged out the Di Bianca boy, a handsome fellow, dressed in the best Roman fashion, and another youngster who, though a child in years, had massive work-scarred hands. The four gave an exhibition of dancing that was delightful51 indeed, and when Giovanni and Tono went skipping about, their hobnailed shoes scratching and clattering52 on the tiles, their mother’s face beamed with real pride. Although very weary with a hard day’s work preparing for the departure, she was among the brightest and merriest of the company.
Then Nicola, the blacksmith, and the shoemaker steamship53 agent, persuaded a third loutish54 youth to take the floor, but a fourth dancer was lacking. At the instant when the last of the other men had refused to take the floor as yet, the village butcher appeared in the door and was hailed with acclaim55 by those who knew his terpsichorean56 gifts. He glided57 into his place on the tiles, drew tighter the knot in his neckerchief, ran his hand through his Saturday-night stubble of beard, tossed his hat to a friend and entered upon the most startling, dashing, withal graceful58 and self-contained feats59 in dance movements I have ever seen. 123He was on his tiptoes the greater part of the time and gave a perfect reproduction of the traditional dance.
Then something happened that is rare—the men and women danced together, waltzing; and when, after a number of varied dances, tarantelle and square, a dance by the old folks was called for, the first person to respond was Mrs. Squadrito. In vain the people of his own age endeavored to get the slumber-smitten Mannino on his feet. At last Giovanina, who had been dancing almost constantly, filled the vacant place among the elder people, and the music broke forth60 once more. I caught my wife’s eyes turned to me in amazement61, and I replied in kind. Caterina Squadrito, with fifty-five years of hard labor31 and the bearing and rearing of ten children behind her, danced a long round of the tarantelle with an ease, grace and abandon which put to shame the efforts of her youngest daughter. When she was gyrating and swaying in the middle of the floor, with all the mass of people about keeping time to the music, laughing and applauding, that room presented a picture which I shall never forget.
Not long after this the mothers who were holding their sleeping children in their arms grew too weary of the burdens and started for home. The others made haste to follow and filed by us, bowing formally as they offered their hands, wishing us good-night and bon riposo.
Sunday morning bright and early the entire family began that weekly process of cleaning and dressing62 up which is, I believe, general in all rural districts of Christian63 countries. Little Ina was arrayed in a pretty little white dress, with a long white veil, and on her head was set a wreath of artificial leaves and white 124flowers. Going by in the street were others. It being her last Sunday, all of her little friends put on their festa dress in her honor, and a procession of the children was held from a church in another quarter of the village to the one on the square.
In the afternoon Camela took little Ina by the hand and set off for some place by herself. I noticed that a sort of solemnity pervaded the household; that she was crying as she went; that no one offered to accompany her; and that she carried a large bouquet64 of flowers. I soon learned that she had climbed the hill behind the town to the graveyard65 on its summit, to spend the last hours she could ever spend beside the graves of her father and her mother.
There were renewed streams of visitors later in the day, and at night a pleasant gathering66 at the home of the Giuntas, where we were shown, among other things, a very fine collection of old jewelry67, inherited by our hostess from an aunt. In this company there were fewer people, and they were more select as village society goes than the large gathering at the Squadritos’ the night before. Antonio, being very popular in the village, and quite democratic despite his prosperity, had asked humble68 and pretentious alike to his home, and neither caste gave a sign, such as they would have given on the street, that they were not of the same strata69. There are some very fine and delicate things in Italian social customs. Before we left we were bidden to a little garden party which Mrs. Giunta had planned for us on the afternoon of the next day. It was to be held on a scrap70 of an estate owned by the family, situated71 up the torrente a short distance.
Ina and Her Friends in Procession to the Church for Farewell Blessings72
That night, after we had returned home, we were 125serenaded by a troupe73 of the village male vocalists, who wandered about until near dawn. The boy, Salvatore Vazzana, whom I have mentioned as singing in the church, sang “Luna, O Luna,” with a triple guitar accompaniment. The serenaders were then standing74 in the white moonlight at a point down by the torrente wall, so that in the stillness the clear, sweet voice and the throbbing75, twanging compagnamento carried to every part of the town and came back faintly from the farther hills.
The Giuntas are a large family. All the present heads of separate households are the children of one aged76 woman, still living in Gualtieri, who has given birth to twenty-two, all told. Most of these are living, and nearly all have prospered77. One is the only man in Italy who can stop a government train, even the Brindisi express, in any spot beside the track where he may appear. He shows his badge as inspector-general, and the train pulls up and takes him on. This attribute was related to us by every fresh group of people we met in the community, and he is considered by them to be a very wonderful man indeed. Our host, on the Sunday evening before mentioned, is one of the few men who own land about Gualtieri or in the district controlled by the Duke of Avarna.
Monday afternoon he and his wife and one or two other guests called for us at the house, and, accompanied by Antonio, Giovanina, Maria, Camela, little Ina, Giovanni, Jr., and Tono, we walked over the torrente path, in the blazing sun, to the gate of one of his farms of garden size. At the gate we met his brother, the village doctor, bound ahorse to see some patients higher up in the mountains. After looking over the splendidly cultivated place and inspecting the 126irrigation devices, very old and clumsy, but none the less effective, we sat down to a repast of fruits of more sorts than I can remember and name. The photograph of the party in the garden tells its own story. If all landowners in Italy dealt as mercifully with their tenants78 as our host appeared to deal with his people, there would be a different story to tell of southern Italy to-day.
Monday evening was a time of turmoil79. First of all the great mass of trunks was got off to the station before dark. Then those who had delayed till the last minute to bring messages for friends and to bid us farewell appeared. I took all the messages, but drew the line at presents for relatives in Missouri, especially twenty-pound forms of cheese and five-gallon cans of olive oil. In the Squadrito household there was too much excitement for great grief, only now and then one of the members would break out with a wail25 and throw his or her arms around some one of those who were to go. By eleven o’clock everything was packed up, and Antonio mandatorily80 dismissed all the neighbors and sent everybody to bed. As the silence of the outer night crept into the house, there became audible the sobbing81 of the poor old mother as she lay thinking of the near separation from her own flesh and blood.
The heads of the weary and worn seemed scarcely to have touched their pillows before awakening82 voices rang in the house and street, the feeling of dread83, chill exhaustion84 and discomfort85 that goes with sleep-breaking at one o’clock seemed to rest numbingly on every one. The tumultuous grief of the night before had given place to a sort of hushed woe86. A short time to dress, a bite to eat, then into the dark, narrow streets 127with sleep-heavy eyes, to meet a crowd of hundreds come to see the party off. It is wonderful how little noise that concourse made as it moved out of the square, over the ancient bridge, to the beginning of the mountain road.
The parting with the mother and sisters occurred at the door of the Squadrito home. The mother was so overcome with her sorrow that, shaken with dry sobs87 and murmuring broken blessings, her daughters, unable to speak themselves from weeping, loosened her arms from about Antonio and Camela and bore her to her couch.
At the edge of the village a group of donkeys was in readiness. Here the crowd paused. Not more than seventy-five elected to walk the seven miles to the station and back, and there were few relatives among them. Antonio’s father was as completely broken down as if he was giving his favorite son and the others to the grave, instead of their departing for a happy land.
It was with difficulty that those natural leaders among the people effected the final separations, but at last, in the starlight, the two groups drew apart on the highway, the cavalcade88 with its foot retinue89 ascending90 along the face of the hill, the great, black mass of the crowd grouped about the end of the bridge shouting farewells. Some one struck up a farewell song, several voices joined in, among them the Vazzana boy’s clear soprano; but one by one they broke, and soon the song failed and ceased; and as the procession turned the corner that hid the town from view the long file of those left behind could be dimly seen moving back to the darkened homes.
It were ill indeed not to speak of “Bella.” The day 128before, when donkeys were being hired for the ride to the station, I had been struck by the gentle and affectionate way in which she stood beside her owner’s young wife, and had marked her for my own. Experience with the army mule91 of Missouri extraction and his despised cousin, the Mexican burro, should have made me less trustful.
For a half hour we cantered along in the dark, the babel of talk all about us. At the rougher places I held my camera carefully balanced on Bella’s neck in front of me, in order that it be not banged against projecting rocks or by other laden92 beasts pressing close alongside at times. When one wishes to urge a Sicilian donkey forward, one kicks him in the ribs93 and shouts high and nasally:
“Ah-a-a-ah!”
We came to a sharp bend in the road, where it turned over a high bridge crossing a deep ravine. Bella heard the braying94 of the lead donkey already across the bridge and on the other side of the ravine, and suddenly, without consulting me, turned aside and plunged95, like a goat, from rock to rock down into the blackness of the ravine. I had been in the tail of the train, and no one missed me, I knew. She would not be checked on her downward course; in fact I was too busy clinging to the precious camera and holding on, to attempt to argue with her. The limbs of olive-trees and the raking thorns of the mura swept us from stem to stern. If she knew where she was going I felt very glad, for I certainly did not. High and faint above me I could hear the voices of the party. I was wondering what my chances were for getting out without a broken neck, when suddenly my fair beast struck level ground, and in an instant more a steep ascent96. All sounds to 129show that the party was still in the vicinity had died away. The donkey went up that precipitous slope with an action that seemed nearly “hand over hand,” and, holding the strap97 of the camera in my teeth, I merely clung desperately98 about her neck. A stone loosened by her hoofs99 went crashing, down, down, down, and a cold sweat broke out on my brow.
But in a short time, without one misstep or one minute’s uncertainty100, she made the climb, came out into a level open space, and stood stock still, looking to the left, and working her ears. I bent101 down and touched the ground with my fingers, encountering the warm, thick dust of the highway, and in a moment more heard the voices of our party as they turned a bend. Bella had taken a short cut across the ravine. Not having missed us they did not wonder how we had got so far ahead, and I said nothing about the matter.
Soon we wound through the slumbering102 town of Pagia. A head was now and then thrust out to murmur a sleepy “Bona notte,” and when some one of us answered, “We go to America,” there was always a hearty103, “Bon viaggio e bona fortuna.”
Just beyond the village we heard something, encountered often before, but never under such eerie104 surroundings. Somewhere in the paths higher up, a shrill105 young voice raised a wild, plaintive106 song, and at the end of the first line held the note long drawn out and rounded, though nasal, while many other voices, men, women and children, struck in on a major chord and held it as long as they had breath. This was repeated over and over. It was a band of peasants already on their way to their distant work, singing in the plagal modes, in the darkness and loneliness of the hills.
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1
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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37
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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craftsmen
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| n. 技工 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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42
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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43
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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44
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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45
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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46
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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47
tambourines
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓( tambourine的名词复数 )；（鸣声似铃鼓的）白胸森鸠 | |
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48
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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49
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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50
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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52
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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53
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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terpsichorean
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| adj.舞蹈的；n.舞蹈家 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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mandatorily
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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86
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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99
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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101
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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102
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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103
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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104
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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105
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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106
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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